


Ambassadorial Duties

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Kilts, M/M, ambassador missions, author will edit later, exploring new planets, it's 3:30 am and author is too tired to add more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FSA captain and ambassador Charles Xavier lands on planet Duran to open negotiations. He's distracted by men in kilts - specifically, the man at the center of the arena in the magenta kilt that would make Charles laugh, if he weren't so busy drooling. </p><p>Kilt fic for and collab with synekdokee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Synekdokee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/gifts).



> Inspired by Syn's kilt [prompt](http://synekdokee.tumblr.com/post/50599612115/bicentral-thought-you-guys-might-appreciate). 
> 
> This is a collaboration with the fabulous synekdokee. Amazing art found [here](http://synekdokee.tumblr.com/post/50675778828/the-man-was-wearing-nothing-but-a-ruffled-skirt). 
> 
> Palalife's fantastic art [here](http://palalife.tumblr.com/post/51052406750/ambassadorial-duties-by-ikeracity-makes-me-want).
> 
> More gorgeous art from the lovely gabbia [here](http://gabbia.tumblr.com/post/51073053010/for-ikeracitys-amazing-fic-ambassadorial-duties) and [here](http://gabbia.tumblr.com/post/51307144174/my-friend-dazzlin-asked-me-to-draw-more-ambassador).
> 
> Unbetaed.

The man was wearing nothing but a ruffled skirt around his waist that ended at his knees, and Charles could not stop staring. 

Before he had taken a shuttle down to the planet's surface, the ship's computer had informed him that these garments were called kilts, and that in the Duranian society, it was typical of men to wear them and nothing else. The kilts had designs Charles could not puzzle out, but he'd been told by the ambassador that the symbols signified ranks of nobility and other forms of societal stature. He was sure the designs were lovely, but he couldn't concentrate on them for more than a few seconds. Instead, his eyes were drawn to skin—specifically, the strip of bare thigh that peeked out through the slit that cut the kilt from hip to knee, and more specifically, the bare thigh of the man who stood in the center of the arena, tall and proud.

Charles swallowed the lump in his throat and did his best to look professional, even as he felt his trousers tighten a bit. He and his crew were the most fully-dressed of any of the gathered crowd. They were in their uniforms as per protocol: long-sleeved white collared shirt with black trousers and boots. Charles had three stripes of gold across his sleeves, signifying his captaincy. He usually felt proud of wearing this uniform, of having earned his place, but at the moment, all he wanted to do was be out of it. He could see why the kilts were favored; it had to be over a ninety degrees on the Old Earth Fahrenheit scale, and Charles was sweating horribly. He blinked stinging perspiration out of his eyes and attempted to focus on the welcoming ceremony that the Duranians were putting on for their honored guests.

"Only the best are chosen, Captain," the Duranian ambassador said solemnly at his elbow.

"Chosen for what?" Charles asked politely.

"For the honor, of course," the ambassador said, favoring him with a quizzical look. Too late, Charles wondered if he should have read the mission briefing more carefully before landing. He'd been too tired to give it more than a quick skim, and for a second, he was afraid he'd missed something vital, something dangerous. But no—if there had been anything alarming, his XO Moira would have brought it to his attention immediately.

The ambassador seemed disinclined to elaborate, so Charles clasped his hands behind his back and refocused his attention on the arena.

He couldn't help the way his eyes drifted to the man standing at the center, his kilt riding low on his hips. It was colored magenta, and Charles might have laughed except he was too busy ogling the flash of thigh that the slits in the side of the kilt revealed. Every time the man moved, the muscles of his legs flexed visibly, and Charles clenched his hands into fists, biting down hard on his lip to try to maintain his self-control. He was a starship captain, damn it. He wasn't so unprofessional as to be tempted by every attractive foreigner that crossed his path, and especially not by a foreigner on a planet where he was expected to enter into political negotiations with its newly-cooperative government. He shouldn't be distracted. 

And yet.

Suddenly, the man turned, his eyes snapping unerringly to Charles's, and Charles nearly flinched. Only his curiosity and his pride kept him from averting his gaze and blushing like an inexperienced surface-boy seeing his first alien woman. The man’s eyes were steel-gray and unreadable. Charles knew in that instant that this was a man who would not be played with, and that knowledge sent a shiver down his spine. But it wasn't a shiver of fear. It was— _god,_ it was _want_ , and it had been so long since Charles had wanted anybody that it was a cold shock now. He felt his eyes widen, and apparently the man saw it because his lips tilted up in the tiniest smirk in Charles's direction and he canted his hips forward just an inch, just enough for Charles to see—oh _god_ —the slightest bulge in the front of his kilt. Charles felt lightheaded and breathless. It was the heat, he told himself quickly. Just the heat. He could feel sweat trickling down his brow, down the nape of his neck into the groove of his back. He took a deep breath and forced his eyes away.

The ceremony, he discovered soon enough, was a fight. Charles wanted to protest on principle except it seemed more like a wrestling match than anything and no one was getting hurt. Though he had thought he was too tired and too overheated to enjoy much, he had to admit, the matches were entertaining, if only because those kilts rode up in action, exposing more skin than he'd seen in what felt like years. FSA regulations mandated that all personnel be in uniform nearly all the time, and Charles had been on his ship for the last four months. He hadn't seen anything but blinding white for weeks on end, and now, the sight of all the kilts and bronzed skin made him nearly dizzy. They might as well have been naked, and Charles, in his long-sleeved, pristinely kept uniform, felt overdressed and silly in the heat.

After watching a couple of bouts pass, Charles leaned over to the ambassador and asked, "Is there a prize at the end for the winner, Ambassador?"

The dark-skinned man turned a surprised look on him. "As is the custom, the victor earns the honor of what is rightfully his. Did you not read the information we sent your government? We made sure to explain very thoroughly the nature of the welcoming ceremony."

It would be careless of him to say that he hadn't read it. They might assume that he had had so little interest in their traditions that he hadn't even bothered to read over a carefully-prepared briefing. He didn't know how quick the Duranians were to take offense, but he'd been among people who had been insulted by less. So he said, "Of course, Ambassador," and hoped he wasn't in for any unpleasant surprises.

The bouts lasted anywhere from five to ten minutes, and from what Charles could discern, the victor was whoever managed to pin his opponent down and force his surrender. It resembled the wrestling tourneys Charles had participated in when he'd been younger at Oxford, except that he and the other boys had worn specially-designed suits instead of kilts. In retrospect, that was a blessing because he discovered now that kilts were highly distracting. They shouldn't wear kilts to these things, he thought. How in all of space did anyone focus on the sport? He might have been better able to appreciate the displays of strength if he hadn't been staring so intently at all the exposed skin, laid bare and leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

He licked his chapped lips and wished they'd been given some refreshments because his mouth was bone dry. He was about to turn and ask if they had any water when the man in the magenta kilt stepped back into the arena, and any thought of discomfort fled instantly from his mind. The man turned directly toward him, their gazes locking, and Charles felt his breath stall in his chest. There was something eager in those eyes, something fierce and amused and endless. He smiled, just another tiny upturn of his lips, and then looked away toward his opponent.

Charles found himself hoping that he'd win.

The man in magenta played three bouts and won all three. He was an excellent wrestler, to Charles’s delight, and he was a breathtaking sight. All long, sleek muscle and coiled energy, so lean Charles could have traced his fingers over each rib without having to press in to find bone. He wanted to count those ribs with his tongue, his teeth. He wanted to grip that short, sweat-damp hair and pull back the man’s head to nip at his neck. And he wanted to unbuckle that kilt and slide it off that narrow waist to find out whether or not these Duranians wore any underclothes underneath. The thought of it made his breath shorten, and he had to shift on his feet, hoping no one would notice how uncomfortably tight his uniform pants were getting. 

The Duranian ambassador made a small noise after the third time the man in magenta pinned his opponent. As the crowd clapped its approval, Charles bent toward the ambassador, noting the frown on his face. “Is something the matter, sir?” 

“No,” the ambassador replied, “nothing at all. I am merely surprised.” 

“Surprised?”

“That is Lord Erik Lehnsherr,” the ambassador said, pointing at the man in magenta. “He’s winning today. Curious.” 

Charles wanted to ask why that was so curious when this Erik Lehnsherr was so obviously the best wrestler they had seen so far, but a girl came by with a platter of drinks and he was distracted by his thirst. He picked up a lime-colored glass and sniffed it. It smelled palatable enough, and his throat felt like sandpaper. He was tempted to throw caution to the wind and down the drink without considering the repercussions, but the memory of the incident on Soleris X last year—swelling esophagus, blackouts, a two-day fever—made him glance over at Hank just to confirm. At his questioning look, his chief medical officer hurried forward from the back of the landing party and said, “I’ve already checked all the drinks they’re serving. They’re safe for human consumption.” 

“Good.” Relieved, Charles took a sip and sighed as the coolness hit the back of his throat, chasing away the paper-dry feel. Having drunk his fair share of alien brews, he’d braced himself for something foul, but the taste was surprisingly pleasant. He finished off the whole glass, and when he returned his gaze to the arena, licking his lips clean of the drink as he did, he found the man—Lehnsherr—staring at him again. He realized after a moment that Lehnsherr was staring at his mouth. Probably thinking how undignified it was for the captain of an esteemed FSA starship to be messily licking his chops like an uncivilized far-worlder from one of the half-colonized border planets. Embarrassed, he pulled his tongue back and shut his mouth quickly. Lehnsherr cocked his head, his eyebrow going up. Charles hoped on every star in the sky that he wasn’t blushing. Clearing his throat, he pointedly glanced away, though he thought he could still feel the lingering weight of Lehnsherr’s gaze on his face. 

The ceremony lasted nearly two hours. Charles was glad that they kept the refreshments coming constantly because he was sure he would have passed out from the heat after half an hour under the sun. After a while, perhaps because he noticed how badly the landing party was sweating, the ambassador ordered a pavilion set up near the arena. Charles and the others gratefully took shelter in the shade. Charles would have minded the heat more if it hadn’t been for Lehnsherr, who kept tossing glances over in Charles’s direction, each one of which sending a bolt of heat down Charles’s spine. He wondered if there was any way he’d be able to speak to Lord Lehnsherr afterwards, when the tourney was done. They were staying on Duran for seven days; surely that was enough time for him to meet with Lehnsherr, even with an itinerary as busy as the one he’d been assigned. He wondered if Lehnsherr spoke Standard. He wondered if Lehnsherr would even consent to see him. 

The rest of the tourney passed in a blur. By the end of it, only Lehnsherr and a handful of other men remained. Charles watched as Lehnsherr defeated them one by one, pinning them beneath him with ruthless efficiency, his kilt sweat-soaked and clinging to his legs. Charles thought the ambassador noticed his staring and he meant to avert his gaze in case it was improper, but there was just something so damnably magnetic about Lehnsherr that made it impossible for him to tear his eyes away. 

As the final match began between Lehnsherr and a tall, handsome youth who must have been only eighteen at most, the crowd quieted and shuffled in closer. Charles drifted out from underneath the pavilion, grimacing at the hot sun against his skin. The ambassador stuck to his side, as did Moira, who had borne the heat in good-natured silence so far. The rest of the landing party seemed content to keep to the shade. 

It was immediately clear that Lehnsherr was more skilled, but the boy was more quicker and more agile. He darted out of reach every time Lehnsherr closed in, the green tassels of his kilt fluttering around him. Finally, Lehnsherr stopped and waited for the boy to take the offensive. It was a good tactic, except the boy had incredible speed. He darted in quick as anything and swiped his leg at Lehnsherr’s ankles. Lehnsherr went down in a heap with a surprised grunt, but before the boy could scamper back out of the way, Lehnsherr seized his foot and yanked hard. The boy lost his balance and hit the ground with a solid thud that made Charles wince on his behalf. He lay there dazed for a couple of seconds, long enough for Lehnsherr to roll over and pin him bodily to the dirt. 

“Well,” the ambassador observed as an official declared Lehnsherr the victor and the crowd erupted into a deafening cheer, “that was interesting.” 

“Interesting?” Charles echoed, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. 

“Lord Lehnsherr won,” said the ambassador, as if Charles should grasp the significance of the fact. Charles could find nothing surprising about it—Lehnsherr had undoubtedly been the superior wrestler in all his bouts. Perhaps he wasn’t understanding a local custom or belief. When he glanced over at Moira, she merely shrugged. Bemused, he said nothing as they were led back to the pavilion for more drinks and to begin negotiations. He hoped they would be moved somewhere cooler because he couldn’t think straight in this heat and he was sweating grossly through his uniform. 

But after they’d had another drink, the ambassador turned to him and said, “We will begin talks tomorrow, if you are amenable.”

Charles glanced at the time on his comm. “But we still have hours left of daylight, Ambassador. And the itinerary…” 

“We can push back the itinerary,” the ambassador assured him. “I see that most of your crew is too tired to continue today. I am sorry; we underestimated the effect the heat would have on you, and we would not want you to overexert yourselves.” 

Charles glanced over at his landing party and couldn’t deny that it was the truth. They all looked back at him, exhaustion written across their faces. The long flight here and the heat had taken their toll; Alex was going to have a nasty sunburn on his nose later, Hank was drooping, and even Logan’s glare lacked power. It would be best to pick negotiations up later, when they were well-rested. 

“Of course,” he said. “If it would be convenient for you. I understand you have prepared lodgings for us while we’re here?” 

The ambassador nodded. “Accommodations for each of you. Unless more of your crew will be coming off your ship…?” 

“They’ll be staying off-world,” Charles told him. “It’s just us five.” 

“Excellent. If you would follow me then, I will show you to your quarters.” 

His quarters turned out to be three spacious rooms in a building complex near the plaza where the welcoming ceremony had been held. It was bio-controlled, thank god, and the blast of cool air as he entered felt glorious against his sweat-slick skin. After a quick explanation of the amenities, the ambassador left him alone to explore. He poked around in the main room for a while, flicked the viewscreen on and off, and spent a couple of minutes staring at the abstract paintings on the walls. Then he ventured into the bedroom, which was empty except for a dresser, a bed, and a simple writing desk. A door led from the bedroom to a decently-sized bathroom with a shower and a bath sunk into the ground at the far end of the room, accessible by steps cut into the marble floor. 

Nothing sounded more appealing than a shower at the moment, so Charles stripped off his uniform shirt with some difficulty, since the fabric was wet enough to stick stubbornly to his skin. He’d just wrestled his way out of it when a chime came at the door. Moira probably, coming to go over last-minute plans before negotiations began. She was forever worrying herself into a frenzy about every little detail. He went to the door to tell her to stop thinking so hard, put her comm away, and get some rest. 

But it wasn’t Moira on the other side of the door at all. It was Lord Lehnsherr, still in nothing but his kilt, still dusty and dirt-streaked from the ceremony. 

Charles swallowed hard and prayed his erection wasn’t too terribly apparent. “Lord Lehnsherr, I’m told. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Lehnsherr raised his eyebrow. “You don’t know?” He had a strange accent to his voice, not quite Duranian. “All the ambassadors who come here always seem to know.” 

Charles was beginning to realize that it had been a bad idea to skim the briefing. “No, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I feel terribly unprepared. Please tell me what I’m missing, and I’ll do my best to help.” 

“The ceremony,” Lehnsherr started, then stopped, glancing at Charles to make sure he was following. 

Charles nodded. “Yes. That was a wonderful win, by the way. You were very impressive.” 

Lehnsherr smiled. The expression had too many teeth, but Charles found it oddly charming. “I won it for you.” 

Charles paused. “Wait. What?”

“You really don’t know,” Lehnsherr said, sounding mildly surprised. Thankfully, he looked more amused than offended. “May I come in?” 

“Of course.” Charles stepped out of the doorway to admit him, and they walked to the main room, where Lehnsherr stopped by the viewscreen and Charles hovered uncertainly by the white couch. Even here out of the arena, Lehnsherr looked in control and perfectly at ease. Charles wondered if he were supposed to offer refreshments of some sort, but he didn’t know where anything was, or what to offer. Damn his lack of preparation on his mission. He was normally so much more confident than this. 

“The ceremony,” Lehnsherr said again. “The victor wins the honor of keeping you company for the duration of your stay. All the unmarried men in the city may participate, though few try. It’s an honor customarily reserved for the nobility.” 

Charles stared at him. “Keep me company?” God. Did that mean what he thought it did? “What exactly does that entail?” 

“Anything you care for,” Lehnsherr replied without hesitation. “I am at your service.” 

He felt his cock twitch at Lehnsherr’s words. Fuck. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have read the briefing half-asleep and yawning at every sentence.

“You are at my…You won the tourney for me and…” He floundered for words. Why hadn’t Moira warned him about this? Why hadn’t anyone _told_ him? He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Lehnsherr’s bare chest, still gleaming with sweat and smudged with dirt from the arena. He wanted to put his mouth to Lehnsherr’s damp collarbone and _lick._

As if in response to that thought, Lehnsherr closed the distance between them in four rapid strides, so quickly that Charles didn’t have time to retreat. This close, he could smell the perspiration on Lehnsherr’s skin, overlying the fainter scent of sunlight and grass. His breath seized in his throat as Lehnsherr bent close, the tip of his nose grazing Charles’s ear. 

“I won that tourney for you,” Lehnsherr said, his voice sending a thrill down Charles’s spine. “For the way you were looking at me.” 

_Breathe. Come on, don’t be an idiot, breathe._ “You were looking back,” he said, a bit weakly. 

Lehnsherr huffed a laugh in his ear. “Yes, I was.” He withdrew slightly and raised his hand to brush his fingers lightly across Charles’s jaw. “You’re beautiful.” 

Charles flushed. “Sweating as I am, red-faced, with day-old stubble?”

Lehnsherr smiled. “Even then.” 

Who was this man, and why was he so frighteningly _good_ at setting Charles’s pulse racing? “So you fought to—what—to _have_ me?” he managed, pinning his eyes to Lehnsherr’s and forcing himself not to look down. 

“I fought for the chance to have you,” Lehnsherr corrected. “I’m giving you the chance now. What you do with it is your decision.” His lips twisted into a smirk. “Clearly, you know what I want.” 

Charles _did_ glance down then, and the bulge in the front of Lehnsherr’s kilt was unmistakable. Charles felt his own cock swell at the sight, and _fuck_ , this was a battle lost before it began. He ran through FSA regulations in his head, trying to remember the correct protocol for situations like these, except he couldn’t remember any guidelines for being propositioned by unbelievably attractive men in nothing but a kilt so he thought it had to be all right. Either way, he couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d tried. 

Still, he felt obligated to say, “I’m not forcing you into anything? This isn’t a tradition I’m misunderstanding? Because if the winner of the tourney is required to—to keep a guest company, I— _mmph—”_

He had never been cut off with a kiss before. He had read of it in one of those Old Earth novels Raven liked so much, but he had never imagined experiencing it for himself. Lehnsherr tasted of sweat and dirt and that lime-green juice Charles had been drinking all afternoon. He kissed hungrily, eagerly, but there was no fight in him now; he let Charles press when he tried, content to share the kiss rather than dominate it, and for a few breathless seconds, Charles understood entirely what Raven’s novel had tried to capture in words: that timeless, thoughtless moment where nothing else existed but Lehnsherr’s taste on his lips and the heat of his fingers against Charles’s skin. 

Eventually, Lehnsherr broke away, and Charles was gratified to see that he looked as dazed as Charles felt. “No,” he panted, “you’re not forcing me into anything.” 

“Oh,” Charles said faintly. “In that case.” He glanced toward the bedroom. “I was about to wash up. I’d be delighted if you wanted to join—”

“Yes, of course.” Lehnsherr took his hand and propelled him toward the door. 

Charles pulled them to a stop in the threshold of the bathroom. “Lord Lehnsherr—”

“Erik.” 

“What?”

“You may call me Erik.” 

“Oh. All right.” He supposed that if they were going to be keeping each other company over the next week, then they might as well be on a first-name basis. “Then you’re welcome to call me Charles.” 

“Charles,” Erik said before dipping his head to suck on Charles’s exposed collarbone. Charles braced himself against the doorframe, his knees going weak. 

“Wait,” he breathed. “Erik, wait.” 

Erik pulled back immediately, his sharp, gray-blue gaze locking onto Charles’s. “This is what you want, isn’t it, Captain? I’m not pressuring _you_ into anything?” He sounded amused, but there was a real curiosity behind his words. 

Charles laughed. “No, of course not. I just think we ought to—to clarify some things.” 

Erik nodded. “If you would like.” 

Charles took a breath. It was nearly impossible to think with Erik standing within arm’s reach, his bare skin begging for Charles’s touch, the slit of his kilt giving Charles an eyeful of Erik’s entire leg and a glimpse of the curve of his ass. Folding his arms, he shut his eyes briefly before opening them again. “Let me get this straight. At this tourney, you fight for the honor of keeping guests company for their stay.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you fought today.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you won.” 

“Yes.” 

“For…” 

“If I may be frank.”

“Of course.” 

“For the chance to have you in my bed.” He held Charles’s eyes. “To make you mine.” 

Oh god. Charles shuddered at his words, so much desperate _want_ in him at that moment that he thought he might tackle Erik to the floor and have him right there. But he forced himself to keep rational as best he could. His mind latched onto one question above the others. “Do you do this often?” Had there been others? Was Charles only the latest name of a very long list? 

But Erik shook his head. “I participate, but I don’t win.”

“But you’re—you’re an excellent fighter—”

“I don’t _try_ to win,” Erik amended. “I don’t need the fame or the glory.” 

“But today—”

“Today I saw you.” 

He leaned down to press a kiss under Charles’s jaw, then another lower on his neck. Charles tilted his head back and raised one hand to tangle it in Erik’s hair. “So that’s why the ambassador was surprised when you won.” 

“Was he?” Erik sounded amused. “He knows I don’t want to win.”

“Except today.” 

“Except for you, yes.” 

His words made Charles flush with pleasure. How long had it been since anyone had spoken to him like this? Desired him like this? He took Erik’s hand and hauled him toward the bath. On the way, they managed to rid him of his uniform pants, leaving them crumpled on the marble steps. 

“I have a question,” Charles said once they’d stumbled their way to the edge of the bath, nearly falling into the tub, dizzy as they were with kisses. 

“Ask,” Erik prompted, running his hands down Charles’s chest, his ribs, his hips, his flank. Charles moaned softly as Erik’s fingers grazed the side of his cock, and he had to grip Erik’s shoulders hard to keep from thrusting forward, seeking any sort of friction. He leaned his forehead against Erik’s jaw for a second, trying to catch his breath. After a moment, Erik said again, “Ask.” 

“Oh. Right. I wanted to know…” Charles traced the belt buckle of the kilt with his fingers, feeling out the grooves of the design. “Do you wear anything under this, or will I be treated with a pleasant surprise if I pull this off you right now?” 

Erik smiled and tugged him close, their hips settled flush together so that Charles could feel that there was no way he had any underclothes on, not when he could feel so distinctly the hard line of Erik’s cock pressing against his thigh. Still, Erik whispered in his ear, “Why don’t you take this off me and see for yourself?”

Charles couldn’t help but shiver with anticipation and giddy need. “Gladly.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize ahead of time for the lack of porn in this chapter. The beginning is deceptive.

Charles had set his personal chronometer’s alarm to 0730 so that he would have time to freshen up before his meeting with the Duranian ambassador for breakfast. Before that, Moira would likely want to see him in private so they could confirm last-minute details about the mission parameters, discuss how FSA Command wanted negotiations to go and the like. Plus, he wanted to get Moira aside to ask her why she’d so conveniently forgotten to inform him about what to expect from the Duranian welcome party and its aftermath. It was true that he was required to read the mission briefing just as she was, but she usually reminded him about unusual traditions before they landed so he wouldn’t be completely blindsided, like he had been with all this kilt-fighting business. Not that he was complaining, but it would have been nice to at least have a heads-up. Moira was an extremely competent first officer. She didn’t simply _forget_ things, and he had a feeling she hadn’t simply forgotten to mention this. So to give himself enough time to corner Moira and get through professional as well as private questions, he’d planned to be dressed and out of his rooms by 8. 

It was now 0807 and not only was he not dressed, he hadn’t managed to escape from bed yet. Part of that had to do with the fact that he was still exhausted by the trip here; jumping warp zones always made him feel sluggish for at least a day afterwards, and for this mission, they’d jumped three. But most of the reason he hadn’t gotten up yet had to do with the fact that Lord Erik Lehnsherr currently had his mouth around Charles’s cock and had been teasing it for nearly twenty minutes now. 

Charles knew blowjobs. A career that involved extensive interplanetary traveling had its perks, including mingling with pretty much every known alien species out there and making first contact with some of the unknown ones. Charles was no stranger to alien bar scenes, and though he usually stuck to the ones that both the ship’s computer and Hank had deemed safe, he’d had his fair share of exotic lovers. He’d thought that a blowjob couldn’t get any better than the one he’d received on Pilos from an extremely sinuous bartender with a forked tongue. Evidently, he’d been wrong. 

For a man with as human a tongue as Charles’s, Erik was competing marvelously well with that bartender. It had gotten to the point where Charles couldn’t even remember in which quadrant Pilos was located, let alone what that forked tongue had felt like. All he could do was shudder and grip the bed sheets, white-knuckled, as Erik held his legs open with hands on his inner thighs and mouthed at his cock, slowly and steadily. 

The chronometer beeped. Charles couldn’t muster the strength to crane his head back to glance up at the display above the bed, so he croaked hoarsely, “Time.” 

_“Oh-eight-ten.”_

“Shit,” he muttered. The breakfast meeting was in fifty minutes and he hadn’t even gotten into uniform yet. “Erik—please—”

The lord looked up at him from between his legs and _fuck,_ Erik lying loose-limbed below him with his lips wrapped around Charles’s cock and his eyes fixed wickedly on Charles’s was the most erotic thing Charles had ever seen. He nearly came right there, but Erik had one hand squeezing the base of his dick and all he could do was whimper, helplessly turned-on. They maintained eye contact as Erik slid his mouth slowly down, further and further until Charles’s cock disappeared all the way. Squeezing his eyes shut, Charles heaved in shallow breaths, everything in him straining to thrust up into that heat. Decency kept him from doing so, in addition to Erik’s iron grip on his thighs, unyielding enough that he couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. He was at Erik’s mercy, as he had been since he’d woken up almost half an hour ago to Erik peppering kisses from his chest all the way down to his knees and then back up to his groin. 

The thought made him dizzy with arousal. It had been a long time since he’d ceded this kind of control to anybody, but there was something about Lord Lehnsherr that made him easy to trust. Maybe it was his honesty, maybe it was the gentle way he’d held and fucked Charles last night, though Charles would have liked it fast and rough as well. He hadn’t taken much, though he could have. That made Charles want to give. 

But he couldn’t give for long. “Erik, please,” he panted, “I’m going to be late.” 

Erik pulled off him in a slow, excruciatingly pleasurable drag. “Then you’ll be late.” 

Charles shivered at the loss of heat, his stiff, wet cock curving up toward his belly. Deep breaths. “I don’t think you quite understand how diplomatic talks work,” he managed, pleased when his voice came out even. “I can’t just _be late._ I could start an interplanetary incident.” 

“You could,” Erik agreed, sounding thoughtful. He resettled himself between Charles’s legs and flicked his tongue out to lap lazily at the tip of his cock. “I suppose it would only be responsible of me to finish this quickly then.” 

“Y—yes.” Charles fisted his hands in the bed sheets, tensing in anticipation. But Erik didn’t suck him down again, just licked along his length, leaving wet, warm trails that weren’t nearly enough. “You’re driving me mad,” Charles gasped, bucking his hips a little. “I thought you said quickly.”

“Did I?” Erik swiped his tongue along his bottom lip and smiled, all teeth. “I happen to know the ambassador personally, and I can assure you that he’ll be later than you will.” 

Charles groaned. “Yes, but my first officer won’t be.” 

As if on cue, the room’s computer announced, _“Commander Moira MacTaggert has requested entry. Admit or deny?”_

“Deny!” Charles answered, flying out of bed. “Give me the intercom please.” 

_“Intercom on.”_

“Moira?”

“Charles. Can I come in? I expected to see you in the common area before breakfast but you weren’t there. We have to talk about the economic routes being discussed today. FSA Command called in, wanted us to revise some things—”

“Yes, one moment,” Charles said, digging through the bag he had brought for a clean uniform. He’d left yesterday’s sweat-stained clothes crumpled by the bath where Erik had stripped them off and dropped them. He probably should’ve laundered them, but it was too late to think of that now. At least he had a spare packed away. “I’m—I’m running a little late. Give me five minutes?”

“You’re already late,” Moira said. There was something knowing in her voice. “But I’ll try to stall if you want.” 

“You’re a godsend. I’ll be out in a moment. Intercom off.” 

_“Intercom off.”_

“That’s kind of your first officer, don’t you think?” Erik asked, still sprawled indolently in bed. He watched as Charles darted to the bathroom to check on his appearance. “We’ve got time if she’ll stall.” 

“I’m ninety percent certain that Moira knows you’re here,” Charles huffed. Hell, she’d probably had a hand in arranging it. “And no, we haven’t got time.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take care of that?” 

Erik nodded at Charles’s crotch, and he looked down to find his cock still swollen and aching to be touched. And Erik was smiling again now and licking his lips. Fuck. 

“Can you get me off in under two minutes?” Charles demanded. “No more teasing. I really do have to go.” 

Erik’s smile widened. “Is that a challenge?”

Seven minutes later, Charles staggered out of his room to find Moira leaning against the wall in wait. She looked sharp and ready in her uniform, datapad in hand, everything about her neat and put-together. He knew he didn’t cut such an impressive figure himself, only half-awake, uniform wrinkled, still a little weak-kneed. He’d grabbed his own datapad off the dresser before he’d bolted out the door, but he hadn’t had time to pull up any relevant documents yet. He was a mess, which threw him off because he was usually much less rushed and usually looked much less…well, _shagged._

She raised an eyebrow at him and stepped forward to adjust his collar as he fixed the way his sleeves were bunching up at his elbows. “We’ve got half an hour to get our info together before we have to see the ambassador.” 

“Long night,” he told her apologetically. 

“And long morning as well,” she observed, her tone dry as she combed down his hair with her fingers.

Charles shot her a sheepish smile. “And that.” 

Her eyes softened a bit as she smoothed down the shoulders of his uniform. “You look…better. Less tense.” 

Realization set in. Charles pointed his finger at her and said lowly, “I knew it. I _knew_ you set this up.” 

“I didn’t set anything up,” Moira replied, turning on her heel and starting down the hall. “I just saw an opportunity and helped you along.” 

He had to jog to catch up. Moira always walked as if she were late to everything, when in fact it was her personal policy to always be at least five minutes early. _“Helped me along._ You didn’t tell me that I was going to be welcomed by my personal Duranian wrestler in my assigned quarters!”

“I assumed you’d read it in the briefing,” she replied unapologetically. “And besides, was it such a bad surprise?”

He huffed. “No, it wasn’t, but that’s not the point.” They entered the lift at the end of the hall, and Charles waited until the opaque shielding had come up, preventing them from falling out, before continuing. “The point is, it’s not your job to get…to get me…” 

“To get you laid?” Moira scrolled through her datapad for the itinerary, found the floor they were supposed to go to for breakfast, and said, “Level 26.” 

As the lift began to move in response, Charles said, a bit exasperated, “Yeah, to get me laid. _I’ll_ get me laid if I feel like it.”

“Charles.” She turned to face him finally, leveling a concerned look at him. “You’re right. As your first officer, I have no business in your personal affairs. But as your friend of eleven years—”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go again.” 

_“—as your friend of eleven years,_ I do have a right to be worried about you.” 

“Moira.” He gave her his best smile, bright and charming. “Look. What happened, happened. And it was a year ago. I’m over it, I promise.” 

Her gaze turned skeptical. “Really.”

“Really.” 

“See, I think you’re not. Would you like evidence?”

He crossed his arms and looked away. “Not particularly, no.” 

“Well, that’s really too bad.” She pulled up a memo on her datapad and began to read. ‘“April 27, 2278—The captain has come in with a broken rib, a bruised jaw, and a fractured hand. Cause of injury: a local took exception to the captain flirting with his wife. September 19, 2278—The captain has sustained minor injuries while with the landing party. Bruising along his back, a shallow bite on his upper arm. Cause of injury: the captain flirted with a local woman, which she took to be insulting and retaliated accordingly. June—”’

Charles winced. “Why are you reading my medical record?”

“To prove that you were an incurable flirt three years ago,” Moira replied. The lift came to a gentle stop, and after the shielding dropped, they stepped out and continued down the hall, Moira giving the schematics of the floor a quick glance to make sure they were headed in the right direction. “And then you met Walsh and then—”

“I don’t want to talk about Walsh,” Charles said, some of his good mood evaporating. 

Moira pushed on anyway. “—you met Walsh, and—what happened in New York happened—and as far as I can tell, you haven’t even given anyone a second glance in the last year.” 

“Is that really such a bad thing?” Charles gestured to her datapad. “At least Hank won’t have to file any more of those reports.” 

“I admit that not having to pull locals off my captain every time we land and he sticks his foot in his mouth is a pleasant change,” Moira agreed, “but you’re not even trying to move on, and if I’d had to watch you wallow in sexual frustration for even another day, I was going to kill someone.” She reached out and pulled on his arm, bringing him to a stop. “Look, Charles, as your first officer, I can see that you’re distracted. Tense. It’s affecting the way the ship runs, and you know it. And as your friend, I want to help.” 

Charles raised his eyebrows. “By gifting me with a very hot, very willing Duranian kilt-wrestler?” 

She shrugged. “If that’s what works, then good. If it doesn’t work, then at least you’ll get a few good nights out of it and you can try to focus a little more, okay? Because if this goes on for much longer, I’m going to have to tell Hank. Not that he hasn’t already noticed, but with a first officer’s input, he’ll have to give you a full medical examination and you might not like what you find.” 

There was a warning edge to her voice that made Charles’s eyes narrow. “And what might that be?” he asked, his own voice a little too sharp. 

“That you might not be fit for duty,” she replied without flinching. “We’ve given you leeway for months, Charles. But if you don’t face what happened, then maybe it’s time you took a vacation. A break, if you will. Just until you got things together again.” 

His first instinct was to deny her assertions. He was fine. Samuel Walsh was a name of the past, and Charles had made his peace with what had happened. It was true that Erik was the first person he’d been with since…since New York, but Erik hadn’t been the first person he’d looked at, the first person he’d been interested in. He just hadn’t had the motivation to pursue the others. He was a captain, he had a job, and lately, he’d had very little free time to be flirting with anybody. There were rational explanations for his distinct lack of a sex life in the last year. Maybe he had just finally grown out of bar-hopping and one-night stands. 

But some part of him knew she was right. Before New York, he had never felt this consistently tired. He hadn’t been sleeping well in a while. Sometimes when he fell asleep, he could hear Walsh’s voice in his ear, his voice distorted and saying things that didn’t make any sense until Charles woke up and remembered the truth. He hadn’t been down to the labs to look over what Hank was up to, like he used to like doing. And before New York, he would have read this mission’s briefing and known what was coming, instead of putting it off in favor of a couple more hours of sleep. 

He scrubbed his hand over his face with a sigh. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m going to be fine, I promise.” 

The tension in her expression eased. “Good. As long as you’re trying.” Then she grinned secretively. “You’ll have to tell me all about Lord Erik Lehnsherr later.” 

Heat shot through him at the mere mention of Erik’s name. “Erik is Erik,” Charles said evasively, his smile returning. The memory of how he’d been woken up that morning was enough to lift his spirits. “You’re as gossipy as a schoolgirl. You know I’m not telling you anything.” As they neared what appeared to be the dining hall, he slipped on his captain’s persona, pushing away Erik and Walsh and everything else. “Personal matters aside, brief me on the economic situation in less than five minutes, Commander.” 

Moira straightened, her own expression formal again. She pulled up a screen and handed her datapad to him to look over. “Of course, Captain.” 

By the time the Duranian ambassador arrived, Moira and Charles had already been seated by the attendants and given glasses of lime-green juice to sip before the meal. Charles had skimmed through the most pertinent mission documents, his reading made easier by the notes that Moira had made in the margins. Honestly, he didn’t know what he would have done without her. He had to seriously get back to his duties after this, he thought. He’d been slacking long enough. 

Ambassador Kenneth Thompson arrived fifteen minutes past the arranged time, looking a bit flustered as he swept in through the automatic doors. Erik had been right, Charles thought with a tiny smile. Later than Charles indeed. 

“Captain,” Thompson said, reaching across the table to shake his hand. “Good morning. I apologize for being late.” 

“That’s no problem,” Charles replied. 

Like the attendants, Thompson was attired in a kilt, even indoors where it was drastically cooler than outside. Charles wondered if the Duranian men ever wore anything else. The women, he’d noticed, wore thin shirts and skirts not unlike the men’s kilts. 

He studied Thompson for a moment as the other man got settled. The ambassador was a man getting on in his years, but he still looked relatively fit, with muscular shoulders, strong arms, and just the beginnings of a round belly. Even with his powerful, thick frame, he didn’t look nearly as impressive as Erik had in his kilt. Charles didn’t think anyone could look quite as stunning as Erik did. 

Once they were seated, Thompson asked, “Will your other crew be joining us?”

Charles shook his head. “It’ll just be the commander and myself, Ambassador.”

“Excellent.” Thompson downed half a glass of juice in one gulp and then sat back as the attendants began to serve them. “Did you sleep well, Captain? And you, Commander?”

“I slept very well,” Moira replied politely. 

“I had a good night,” Charles said, which wasn’t the same as sleeping well but it had passed very pleasantly. And when Erik had thoroughly tired him out, he had fallen asleep without dreams. He counted that as a victory. 

The ambassador smiled. “Have you taken advantage of our…eh, amenities?”

Charles started. He hadn’t thought that that would be brought up so plainly. “Yes, I have,” he answered, hoping he wasn’t blushing. “Thank you.” 

Thompson relaxed visibly. “Good, good. Some visitors have been…less accepting of our customs, but your first officer assured me that our methods of welcoming you to Duran would be appreciated.” 

Charles gave Moira a sideways glance, which she pointedly didn’t return. “Did she? Well, she was right. Thank you again.” 

Thompson waved away the thanks. “You ought to thank Lord Lehnsherr, when you’re done. Without volunteers, the welcoming ceremony would be defunct. Fortunately, we never seem to have a shortage of willing participants.” 

“I’m sure,” Charles said with a grin. “And I’ll be sure to thank him.” Exhaustively. With tongue. 

He watched as the servers set down a dish in front of him that was piled high with a strange green mush on one side and what looked like a slice of bread on the other. As he peered it over, wondering if it were safe to eat, the ambassador reassured him, “I’ve had the food vetted by your chief medical officer, Captain. He tells me that everything should be safe for consumption. In any case, seeing as how we are both of human descent, I believe our digestive systems should be mostly similar.” 

Human descent. Right. He vaguely remembered reading that Duran had been one of the Union colonies before the Reclamation Act of 2196 had given all colonies their autonomy. Those that had wanted to remain within the Union had received their autonomy and then were given the choice to be reinstated among the Union planets. The others, like Duran, had taken their freedom and grown largely apart from the Union. It was only in the last few decades that some of the Reclaimed Colonies, or RCs—as they were called—had begun to reach out to the Union again, to form alliances and trade routes and such. Duran had expressed their desire to reconnect only last month. Many colonies still hadn’t sought to renew contact. 

Humans indeed, Charles thought. He wondered where the Duranians had come from before they landed here. Where had their ancestors left? Most of them resembled Old Earth Eurasians, so presumably they had left the same area as a group and come to Duran to settle. Erik, he realized abruptly, looked different. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed it before. Some of the Duranians looked as if they leaned more toward an Old European heritage rather than Asian, but Erik looked full-blooded Old European. Perhaps that was why his accent sounded a little off. Had his grandparents and parents come on their own, not with the original colonists? Independent colonists to far-world planets were uncommon but not unheard of. Most people preferred to travel with others, for security purposes. Some, though, enjoyed the independence. 

Questions to ask Erik later, when they had free time. For now, Charles set his curiosity aside and picked up the utensil by his plate that resembled a spoon crossed with a fork.

“Those are specialty eggs,” Thompson explained as Charles sampled the green mush. “Imported from Ludansa. That’s one of our larger cities to the south.” 

“Not chicken eggs, I presume?” 

“No,” the ambassador chuckled, “not Old Earth chickens at least. How do you like them?”

Charles rolled a mouthful around on his tongue for a long few seconds before swallowing. “Ah, a little spicy for my taste, I think.” 

“The captain is a picky eater,” Moira said with a smile. “I think the eggs are delicious.” 

“I am not,” Charles protested as he soothed the spicy burn with a sip of juice. It was nearly impossible to be a picky eater when one traveled to completely different planets on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. 

“The cuisine here is not entirely unlike Old Earth cuisine,” Thompson said. “Where do you hail from, Captain?”

“Old Earth,” Charles replied. In truth, they were based out of FSA Command Headquarters, which was more of a massive floating space-dock than anything, but since it orbited Old Earth, that was the standard reply for most FSA starships that were stationed nearby. If they were really to get specific, he was from London, then New York, but that was neither here nor there. 

After they had eaten their fill, Thompson gestured to one of the attendants, who fetched a datapad from a side table and handed it to him. “Now, Captain,” he said, leaning forward, “shall we begin our negotiations?”

Charles pushed his empty plate away. “Yes, let’s.” 

They spent most of the morning discussing Duran’s current status in relation to the Union, strategic issues concerning Duran’s geographical distance from the main Union quadrant, and terms and conditions of a possible alliance. Duran had always been cooperative and non-violent toward the Union, which gave them favorable ground to work on. For decades, it had remained independent of any association, even steering clear of the Association of Reclaimed Colonies, a coalition some of the RCs had formed to gain greater equality and leverage when dealing with other planets and planet systems. Only now was it beginning to consider alliances, mostly due to the fact that without trade agreements and friends in various quadrants, it was nearly impossible these days to get any good deals on imports and exports. Duran’s economy was suffering from its isolationist policies, and that was why their government had contacted the Union. That being the case, economic talks were to feature strongly in their negotiations. 

When Charles brought the topic up, Thompson said, “It’s no secret that Duran’s economy is weakening. In order to reverse the slump, we’ve decided to seek new trade routes that would help our import/export business. We’d like particularly to submit a request to use the Union’s Beltway.” 

Charles nodded. The Union’s Beltway was a highly prized route that circled around most of the Union planets. Economists had likened it to the famed Silk Road of Old Earth history. Within the last fifty years it been extended to include quite a few independent planets as well, making it one of the largest, safest trade routes in existence. It was no wonder the Duranians wanted in. “We thought you might. We’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a contract for use of the Beltway. You can look it over at your convenience once the meeting is over. Commander?”

“Sending,” Moira said as she swiped through screens on her datapad. “And…sent.” 

An answering trill sounded from the ambassador’s datapad, and Thompson smiled. “Thank you.” 

“Before we enter into more extensive negotiations,” Charles said, “I’d like to take a look at Duran’s economy firsthand. Is there an economic expert that might be able to guide us through the generalities of trade here, both interplanetary and intraplanetary?” 

Thompson’s smile widened. “I think you’re already well-acquainted with one of our experts.” 

Charles frowned. “Sir?”

“Lord Lehnsherr owns the Magneto Road,” the ambassador explained. “It’s one of the largest, longest intraplanetary trade routes on Duran, second only to the Federal Highway. He knows trade on this planet better than anyone, and since he’ll be keeping you company for the duration of your stay, you’re in luck. I’m sure he would be honored to answer any questions you might have.” 

Lord Lehnsherr, economic expert. Charles would never have guessed. 

Beside him, Moira grinned. “Perfect. Then the captain will clarify a few details with him before we resume negotiations.” 

“Excellent.” 

With that, they concluded their morning talk. Thompson shook their hands again, bid them a good day, and disappeared out the door, leaving them to their own devices. 

“Lucky you,” Moira said once they were alone again. “You get to spend _extra_ time with Lord Lehnsherr.” 

Charles huffed. “I’m going to be completely professional, Moira. I’m here to do my job, not get shagged.” 

“And in the bedroom?”

He couldn't help but grin. “That’s the bedroom, and that’s my business.” 

Moira laughed. “That’s what I figured.” 

A thrill shot through him at the thought of spending more time with Erik outside of his quarters, of getting to know Erik outside of bed. What sort of man was he? What did his nobility mean here, in Duranian society? Just how much could he tell Charles about the economy? There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask, answers he wanted to know. He would have made a good scientist, Hank had told him more than once, if he hadn’t taken the captaincy. His curiosity was boundless, a curiosity he hoped Lord Lehnsherr would indulge when they had time. The knowledge was the real prize, he told himself; seeing Erik outside again in his kilt would merely be a bonus. 

When he returned to his quarters, he found to his disappointment that they were empty. Erik was gone. Charles wandered around the rooms for a few minutes, trying to figure out where Erik could have gone. The trill of his datapad brought him back to the living room. He found a message addressed to “Captain C. Xavier” from “Lord E. Lehnsherr.”

> _Charles—_
> 
> _I have duties to attend to. I will be free again by this afternoon, if you would like to see me. Let me know._
> 
> _—Erik_

Charles nearly snorted. _If?_

He sent back: _I have a tour of the Capitol scheduled for 1600, but please feel free to come by any time after that._ Then he settled at the writing desk in the bedroom, pulled up the briefing documents that he should have studied before landing, and began to read. 

Lunch was brief. He took the meal with his on-planet officers in the same room that he had had breakfast in. Alex grumbled the entire time about the heat. Logan poked at the food they’d been served, looking as if he were swallowing something painful with each bite. Hank, at least, was cheerful, discussing what fascinating observations he’d noted of the Duranians. They had adapted to the heat, he explained enthusiastically. Apparently the arid temperatures went year-round, and Hank was eager to study vasodilation and vasoconstriction under such circumstances, as well as other thermoregulation techniques that he chattered on and on about until Alex told him crossly to shut up because he was getting a headache. Moira tactfully ignored their bickering, even when Alex tried to drag her into it. She picked over her food carefully and looked as if she were half a second away from rolling her eyes. Just another day with this crew, Charles thought fondly. They were more of his family than anything else. 

Once lunch was over, he wandered the building for a while, exploring the corridors and gazing out the windows at the sandy landscape beyond. Though most of the Duranian surface resembled the vast deserts of Old Earth, cultivated grass plots cropped up here and there between buildings in what looked like gardens, some personal, some seemingly too large to be private. He wondered if the grass was native to this world, or if maybe the first settlers had brought a little bit of Old Earth with them, something to remember home by. Maybe, in time, the people would forget where this grass had come from and why it was here. They would accept it as part of Duran, part of their new home. But it would always remain, a streak of green to remind those who cared of their roots. 

After a while, he headed back to his rooms to prepare for the tour. When he entered, he was startled to find Erik seated on the couch, scanning through the datapad in his hand and looking every inch like he belonged. 

“I thought you weren’t free until later,” Charles said, raising both eyebrows. 

Erik glanced up, spotted him, and smiled. “I wasn’t,” he said, standing. “But I shuffled some things around.” 

He was in his magenta kilt again, and now that Charles knew that he had nothing on underneath, it was nearly impossible not to leap across the room and tug the kilt right off his hips, expose every bit of that glorious body. He kept that urge in check, barely. Still, his eyes roamed across Erik’s bare chest, admiring the muscles of his abdomen and the strong set of his shoulders, remembering how those hands had felt against his skin last night. 

“Well, I can’t keep you company,” Charles told him regretfully. “I’ve a tour to get to in twenty minutes.” 

“I know.” Erik set his datapad down on the table and crossed over to him, stopping at arms’ length. “I spoke to Ambassador Thompson. He told me about your request for an economics expert?”

Charles nodded. “That’s right. He told me that would be you.” 

“That would be me,” Erik agreed. “I also spoke to your assigned tour guide, and he agreed to step aside and let me show you around the Capitol.”

A slow smile began at the corners of his lips. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

“And my officers?”

“They’ll be shown around by the assigned guide.” Erik reached out and touched Charles’s jaw. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to keep you to myself.” 

Charles shivered at his touch and his words. He’d braced himself for a dull, history lecture about the origins of the Capitol. As naturally curious as he was, he’d found that the majority of government buildings had the same stories behind them, stories that Charles had heard now a hundred times over. He’d expected this tour to be no different. But if Erik were leading it, he suspected that it would turn out very different indeed. 

“No,” he replied. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.” 

Erik grinned. “Good. We can get dinner afterwards, if you want. Then tomorrow, I can begin to show you around the city’s major economic centers.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Charles said, smiling at him. His chronometer read 1545. “Shall we go now then?”

“Just a moment.” 

Erik bent down and picked something up off the couch. Charles’s eyes widened as he realized what it was. Still, he said, “What is this…?”

“This,” Erik said with a sly smile, “is yours.”

Charles frowned. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m already dressed and—”

“Charles,” Erik interrupted, stepping in closer. He fitted his hands around Charles’s hips, pulling him in for a long, slow kiss. Charles closed his eyes and leaned into it, parting his mouth to admit Erik’s tongue and raising his hands to grip Erik’s shoulders. Erik pressed, gentle but firm, and Charles let him move him as he wanted, his tongue licking along Charles’s lips, his hands straying to the small of Charles’s back. Erik was a skilled kisser, Charles thought dazedly. Really, very skilled. 

The kiss lasted only a handful of seconds, but it left Charles breathless and half-hard all the same. When they separated, Erik was grinning even wider. “The heat can get punishing here on Duran, in case you haven’t noticed. As delicious as you look all sweaty in that uniform of yours, I would rather keep you from dying of heatstroke. So before we leave, do me a favor and put it on.” 

Charles looked down at the dark, square-patterned kilt that Erik held out to him. On the one hand, he didn’t fancy the idea of walking around essentially naked with nothing but this simple piece of cloth—with _leg slits,_ no less—covering him up. On the other, he fancied even less the idea of collapsing in the heat and risking serious injury, which would no doubt earn him half a dozen lectures from Hank once he recovered. 

So with a sigh, he took the kilt from Erik’s hands and began to strip out of his uniform. “Yes, sir.”


End file.
